


A Tale of Wintry Nights

by Sexsuna



Series: Nyanmar Bestiary [2]
Category: Nyanworld, Original Work
Genre: Anal toys, Cat Ears, Catboys & Catgirls, Fantasy, Fellatio, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Original Fiction, Original Universe, anti-german, primitive brutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexsuna/pseuds/Sexsuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Youka, a young catboy from a rural community in the nebulous far-northern reaches of Nyanmar, is kidnapped by a rowing band of vile pale-skinned muscular brutes, and end up trapped with them, lost in the cold mountainous regions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Wintry Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karin Yukimura (Karinpon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karinpon/gifts).



Far beyond the borders of civilisation, where the mountains towered lonely above the silent mountain passes where the only thing you are likely to hear is the distant thunder of an avalanche or rock-fall, the Germoids exchanged various grunts and expressions that seemed to indicate they were not quite sure they were going the right way. Though their utterances were incomprehensible to him, he saw worry on their faces. The food was running out, and the mountains around them with their sharp knife-like peaks and jagged black ridges and rises protruding here and there must have been as unfamiliar to the Germoids as they were to Youka. 

They hauled him and some supplies on a wooden cart with uneven wooden wheels that bounced unpleasantly over any irregularities in the ground; and the snowy rocky ground offered plenty of those. He was wrapped in a heavy fur cloak and wore a pair of shined boots with thickly furred interior; he had no other clothes because of the circumstance under which the Germoids had taken him. He was thin, frighteningly so (the Germoids had touched his soft flesh and bony arms and laughed when they had taken him), and of unusually short stature, so the muscular and enormous captors were to him like sinister chiselled giants. The one hauling the cart was particularly enormous, and he must be tall even as far as Germoids were concerned, for he towered a good head and then some above the others, and his shoulders were wide as those of an ox. 

It was darkening now. The afternoon was a distant glow beyond the shadows of the black mountains with their snow-covered peaks, and little wisps of snow were carried by perilous mountain gusts down the slopes at intervals, sweeping up across the narrow path of the pass they traversed, tugging at them, chilling their faces. Youka turned his face down into the fur of the cloak and trembled. They pressed on. 

When night came and the moons were full high in the sky, they found a great dark cave where they stopped. Within, the Germoids set a fire and sat down on the ground. The food rations they had provided him had been small and almost meaningless; but now, as his captors realised that food was in short supply, they offered nothing. When he walked toward the food one of them brushed him harshly aside and back into the unlit corner where they had stashed him. His reddish brown furry triangular ears drooped with resignation. 

He covered himself up as tightly as he could and lay in a corner next to the cave wall. He was cold. He couldn’t remember how long ago it was that he was taken – a month? Or was it less, or more? He remembered the day clearly. 

The borders of Nyanmar were porous and ill-defined. Along the outskirts of the official territory were many small settlements and towns with varying levels of development. The town where he had been born had no official name, though it was known as “The Cradle” to locals – a name that reflected the towns location within an unusually even-formed depression in the far northern reaches of Nyanmar. It was mid-autumn when he was taken, the beginning of the eleventh month of the year, and though the weather there in the Cradle was quite cold during winter, it was nothing like what he now experienced. 

His education had been poor. In the rural fringe communities, often reliant on farming or fishing (in the case of the Cradle, it was growing mixed food crops, particularly rare northern berries of various species, which were traded via bulk-barter with the Nyanmar Outlying Areas Trade Commission), most education offered in the basic school building (formerly a pigsty) stressed only practical details relating to farming, and they went in one ear and out the other, at least for Youka, both of whose parents – who had raised him, an unusual circumstance in Nyanmar proper – were the primary leaders of the village council. 

During an excursion with the school – students numbered a total of 12 of varying ages – and two teachers, they had camped near the Glowing Swamp. The name of the place referred to the glow of some unknown gas that seeped up from underground crevices, which was particularly strong before earthquakes, which affected the region regularly. It was however not by night that the Germoid raiding party came, but during the day; they had sat down to eat on a grassy meadow not far from where they had put up their tents, when suddenly someone had cried out. 

Youka had been sitting off to his side nearest to the woods (swept in a towel, as he had just swum in the swamp), and looked out on the meadows and saw the other students and one of the teachers running; the other teacher, he soon saw, too, pierced on a ragged rusty sword, with entrails hanging out from a gushing wound like grotesque earthworms in pasta sauce. The Germoids were loud and moved slowly, and it was no difficulty for most of the Nyanma to escape. Youka was slow to react, however, and when he did finally begin to run, he tripped like the inelegant absent-minded fool most of the other students had regarded him as. In no time the Germoids were upon him and had seized him, the huge monstrous one that later would haul him on a cart simply throwing him up on his shoulder. 

He had heard legends, of course. Kidnappings by Germoid brutes were not unheard of in the northern rural districts. Still, he did not fully understand why they had taken him. He still did not, where he lay in the cave, starving. How hungry he was. Why had they taken him, only to let him lie there, dumped like some useless rubbish? Was it just an expression of their primitive nature, their savagery? Thousands of years ago, he had been taught in school, the Germoids had fought several wars against the Nyanma, whom they regarded as some sort of biological perversions and ungodly hybrids that must be destroyed. There were – according to the school text books, at least – certain fanatical religious currents within Germoid society that regarded the purging of the Nyanma was a prerequisite for the arrival of an Earthly Paradise. 

Usually people kidnapped by the Germoids would not return, that much was certain. It was a rare occurrence – but a fact of life. He wept silently in despair. 

One of the Germoids must have heard it, for a hand reached in through the folds of the cloak and cleared it away. The pale white giant with the ice-cold murderous blue eyes stared down at him, visible with a frightening dark outline through his hazy teary-eyed vision, and made a grimace as of primal sympathy. It was not to be long lasting, for he lifted, rather harshly, Youka up and carried him to the site of the fire. Youka was at first hoping he would be given food, but all food stuff had been cleared away. 

The other three Germoids sat there around the fire, smiling ominously, watching him. The large one that carried him grabbed the thin chain that they had tied around his black collar and pulled him forth. He stood naked and exposed and embarrassed before his audience of savages. There, he saw what they had prepared: a smooth wooden board on which protruded a thick pole with a rounded top; yes, he knew what it was: one of those primitive sex toys that the Germoids made their oppressed womenfolk utilise. The phallic protrusion was covered in white grease of unknown nature, and there were odd glints in the eyes of the tall thing as it pointed at the board and said something he couldn’t possibly understand. The guttural grunts and moans of these white brutes were not an easy tongue to learn; even in border regions which traded regularly with the things it was considerably rare. 

He moved toward the object, cupping his own genitals. He did not want them to be seen by present company. The tall Germoid grabbed one of his twiggy arms and pulled it harshly away, and his small penis flopped useless and flaccid – perhaps it was the lack of food that made it not stand as it used to. Youka had previously always found it to be standing on the most inopportune of occasions. Naked save his boots he got up to the large wooden phallus and positioned his rear above it, inching himself slowly onto it. The Germoids watched, and at least one of them was stroking an erection through the brown tatters of his ugly weathered trousers, whose frayed crotch bulged noticeably. 

Youka slowly took the large object into his arse, but the watchers were not happy with the speed at which it was going in; the tall one once more grabbed him, by both arms this time, and pressed him downwards on it. It hurt. He had never taken anything so big before. A sharp searing pain radiated throughout his body, and he grimaced, tears coming once again; the expression he made must have made the tall thing aroused, for it stuffed his face immediately with its cock; whose bell-shaped head was dry and coarse in Youka’s mouth. 

He licked it. It was best to keep the brutes happy, he reasoned; as happy as they could be. As happy as he could make them. No reason to anger them unnecessarily, at any rate. If this was what they wanted... 

The thing was huge and veiny. The foreskin hung loose and considerable (though it was relatively short compared to what Youka was used to with his own kind at home) – this specimen had evidently not gone through that ritual that was commonplace among the Germoids: they chopped off the tips of the foreskins of their young. He had read about it; truly it was a barbaric practice.

Before he knew it, after sucking on that thing for a while (it tasted as it smelled; quite bad: urine, sweat and something rancid, maybe it was shit), three more cocks appeared out of the shadows and throbbed before him. One of them had been through the odd foreskin ritual and flopped like a monstrous beast out of the ocean depths in the subdued orange flicker of the fire. Another had a strange scar running down the underside of his prick, along the ridge; and the organ pointed upwards at an angle like some exotic southern fruit. Youka tried to frig them off with one hand each, while he was seated on the wooden phallus; and when the one that occupied his mouth came to a spend, he swallowed the lot hungrily. It might be, he thought, the only protein and food he shall get for a while. Being done, the tall one withdrew, and another shoved his prick in. 

Deep it went. He gagged. The phallus that went into his bottom hurt as he was bent backwards. The Germoid in question grabbed the back of his head and plunged even deeper. Then withdrew; but before he could get even a half-decent breath, it dove down into the depths once more. Pressing against the back of his throat, or at least it felt like so. A few more plunges, and then a pause; a brief respite, he breathed in, spat out the phlegm and saliva. The Germoid jerked the wet prick right in his face, pressed it up against his nose, against his lips. Then it went in again.

He tried to protest, wanting more air, but it was no use; they just kept on thrusting into his face; one after the other, they ejaculated their copious spend within his maw. His knees scraped against the cold cave floor on the sides of the wooden board. 

Eventually they had all taken their turn, and he had diligently swallowed their last drop of seed. He found it was surprisingly filling. Their members hung loose now from the fork of their legs, swaying as they moved slowly, watching him intently. One of them suddenly took a few brisk steps forward, took hold of him, and eased him up, then pushed down, upon the sculptured phallus. Youka grimaced, whined and tried to protest, but there was no point. The Germoids stared; the Germoids laughed. Their round, wicked faces with their bulging eyes reviled him. He reached with a hand and wiped some tears off his face.

The fire was fading. The Germoids soon turned their attention back to it. They left him sitting on that thing – he didn’t know how long. Eventually one of them came, scooped him off it, and put him down on the cold hard ground in a corner behind some sharply protruding rocks that protected against the wind that blew into the cave mouth.

He fell asleep quickly.

*

In the yellow tint of early morning light, he was roused harshly from his unsound sleep by a vicious pull of the chain around his collar. It was marching time again. They spoke to him, but he didn’t understand anything. Then it was back out in the cold, though the warm sun made it more bearable than it otherwise would have been. 

The winding path snaked its way up and down craggy slopes. There was no doubt that the masters had no clue of where they were going now, walking aimlessly. The path passed through a deep ravine, where big boulders from a rock fall of evidently fresh origin were visible. The enormous one had no trouble carrying the wooden cart with supplies over the rocks; he could no doubt break Youka into pieces if he felt so inclined. They made Youka walk behind them, taking turns to be the ones holding the chain. 

The path cut across a steep mountain-side. The cut was deep, and looked artificial; its lines were preternaturally straight, its walls eerily regular. Youka wondered what could have dug out the mountain in such a fashion; it was old, that much was told by the many edges rounded by erosion. The mountainside was covered in snow above the cutting, and below, it was barren grey and black stony slope riddled with free-lying rock fragments, suggesting that this was a perilous place to stay, for rock-slides were surely common.

The ground suddenly trembled and fell while a deep but faint roaring was heard, and the sound of falling rocks echoed from far above and below. Snow fell off the upper edge of the cutting down on the path. The Germoids stopped, cautious, looking about; and the shaking stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A small earthquake, Youka thought. The Germoids resumed their walk, more briskly now, surely aware of the risks of landslides and similar in the wake of seismic activity. 

There was still some distance left to clear the cutting when something else caught Youka’s attention. From up the slope, a sound was heard, similar to the past rumbling, but louder, and growing more and more distinct. He looked up the slopes, and far up in the snowy heights, above some craggy cliffs, came the storming white frizz of an avalanche. The Germoids heard and saw it too, and began to run. The one who had held Youka’s chain dropped it, and the tall beast dropped the cart; they ran as fast as they could. 

Youka, meanwhile, realised that the speed of the avalanche was far too great, and that running forward would only put him at greater risk of being buried by the bulk of that avalanche. The best option, as far as he could tell, was to move close to the cutting’s edge facing the slope, which he did quickly. He peeked in the direction of the Germoids, but soon everything was obliterated by that swirling cloud of snow rushing down the slope like the flow of water from a collapsed dam. He felt some hit against his skin, but circumstance was merciful; the snow around him was no more than a decimetre thick. Ahead, though, where the Germoids had run, lay a mountain of snow a good ten metres high, thickly packed. He waited for a while, lest there should come any more snow falling from the mountain-side, but all seemed quiet. 

The earthquake must have triggered the avalanche, there was no doubt about that. Now, he had to arduously scale that mountain of snow to reach the other side. He considered his options; one, he could return the path they had come, or he could continue. To return was certain doom, as they had walked for long through barren landscapes, and with what little energy he had, he could not make it far.

He picked up the end of the chain and carried it with him as he climbed over the snow pile that buried the Germoids. Suffocated in that whiteness, he thought it was an appropriate end for those brutes. Soon that memorial cairn of snow now erected would melt, and their bodies thaw, and predators would pounce upon them and tear what remained asunder, morsels of brown rotten flesh.

He knew his chances were slim. The cold... But the path seemed to grow in quality. It now consisted of flat-cut rocks, and was easy to walk. It was going downwards, too, which promised... just maybe, things would be getting warmer at lower altitude. Trees appeared; another good sign. Tall pines and firs, sparse at first, soon reaching over the pathway with their verdant canopy, covering the edges of the path in brown dried needles and cones.  
Then it appeared before him.

Hewn from stone; towers, recognisable as buildings. Ancient, their stone roofs cracked. Some were low and long, others tall and magnificent; obviously when they were built they had boasted proud spires unlike anything else seen. There might be something in the ruins that he could eat, maybe some place to seek protection from the cold. He didn’t know how to make a fire without artificial assistance, he had no skill when it came to surviving in the wild... 

“Hey,” came a voice suddenly, from behind him. A Nyanma. “Who are you, what are you doing at the dig? Why are you naked?”

He couldn’t believe it at first. He stood stunned, convinced he had only imagined that. Death had seized him without his noticing, and this was his dying hallucination as the brain released chemicals to accept the unacceptable. He was probably buried underneath another avalanche, gasping for air.  
But then another voice came, this time from the side.

“He’s small, like he wasn’t ever allowed to eat his fill.”

“Truly, a runt,” said the one behind him.

He turned to his right to look for the source of the voice, and saw finally a Nyanma, like him, only tall and carrying himself with far more confidence, sporting a white elaborate dress-costume with long wide sleeves and skirt down to the knees. On the chest was some symbol, probably from an institute of some sort. His hair was blindingly white, like snow.

“Well, boy, you can’t just come here and run into the archaeological dig like this. You might disturb the site. But why are you naked?”  
He blushed embarrassedly all of a sudden – for some reason he had not thought of the fact that he was naked before. “I... I’m sorry,” he began meekly, “I was kidnapped from my village by Germoids, and they took me up into the mountains... I fled when they were buried by an avalanche after that slight tremor.”

“Well, I suppose you can have something to drink, and some clothes, and come heat yourself at our electric heater. Come with me.”  
Youka turned and followed the white-haired Nyanma.

“He’s so small!” said the other. “Are you going to be playing with him? Can I join? I want to fuck his butt, it’s probably really tight!”  
“Shut up, Yusuke. Go frig yourself off.”

He followed the taller Nyanma into a small red tent, set up on a grassy clearing next to what looked like the collapsed stone of what had once been a village well. It was warm in the tent, and Youka felt immediately relieved. The tall Nyanma wrapped him carefully in a smooth warm blanket, and began to fill a cup with steaming amber-coloured tea. 

“I’ll see if I can arrange some transportation for you,” he said. “These are dangerous parts, out here in the great unknown. There’s a lot of wild animals, in addition to the threat of those vile Germoids; those despicable brutes! One would think they’d know better than to persist with their raids... one of these days, we’ll drive them off the continent! Only then can our lives be calm, only then can we rest easy, and sleep throughout the night without worry...”

Yes, Youka thought; the Germoids, those grey-green slugs, fish-eyed oafs, they would have to be eradicated like the plague they were upon the planet, their primitive, inferior ways... Sickening abominations, repulsive savages...

He held the warm cup of tea in his hands, and sipped it softly.

“Hungry?” the tall one asked. 

Youka nodded eagerly.

A plate was put on the table, crowded with the meat of a tender northern bird, steaming.

He wasn’t dead after all.


End file.
